Long Days, Long Nights
by Ygrain33
Summary: The mission to Akuze went horribly wrong, and it takes all the strength of body and will for Connor Shepard to survive the thresher attack and its aftermath. Rated for language.
1. Chapter 1

_Many thanks to Reyavie, for betaing and support._

* * *

**Chapter 1**

_One of your first missions was an expedition to investigate Akuze, a lush world on the outskirts of Alliance space that had suddenly dropped out of contact_

The eastern horizon turns golden pink and soon drowns in the blaze of the rising sun: the dawn of another day on Akuze. With the planet's twenty-six standard hours' rotation, the time seems to linger, luring to a slower, lazier rhythm.

David Romero _hates_ the laziness of the slowly passing time; he's not the type for long, idle _siestas_. His is the mind that rarely remains at rest, always solving some problem or figuring how things might work more efficiently.

If these things can be combined with some adrenaline, even better.

Normally, a research base wouldn't be a place of preference for Romero but this one is different: it provides many challenges for a tech expert, and adrenaline aplenty.

The fact that he is on _two_ payrolls is merely a sweet bonus to it all.

True, the work does have its drawbacks. For all its high-tech equipment provided by the _other_ funding, the base is a typical Alliance structure: small and practically devoid of privacy, limiting the already limited fun of non-alcoholic beer and holographic girls to minimum. Nonetheless, Romero can bid his time to get the beverage of his choice later, when his account bulges out of proportion, and girls… well, there are _some_ girls on Akuze, virtually dancing to his tune.

Sipping his coffee, the best Brazillian blend of his private stash, he checks the console of the monitoring system, and his face cracks in an excited smile. _The dance is about to start! _He switches on the com. "_Buenas dias_, everyone, it's a beautiful morning, and our long-expected visitors have arrived for the rendezvous!"

He chuckles at the frustrated groan he hears in the comm: _some_ people really hate getting up early. Funny that a softie like Wayne has taken up the study of such fascinating beasts like the threshers.

_Threshers_. Metres and metres of death incarnate, with teeth and claws and potent acid, crushing anything that might yet resist with their mere size.

Watching them in action is something Romero never tires of, and he is looking forward to the final test of their prowess.

* * *

"SSV _Warsaw_." Julianna Stravinski, the chief researcher, pushes an unruly auburn lock from her forehead. "The Alliance is really taking this seriously, sending a cruiser right away."

"Told you so." Fronsard, with his long face and shaved head, looks like an officer, and he is the only who has actually served in the army; as such, he considers himself an expert in all things military. "So soon after the Blitz, they want to keep their image of don't-fuck-with-us guys and crush every raiding merc who would put up his head too high."

"Yes, Carl. I am fully aware that your assessment was correct."

Of course, neither of them mentions Romero's irreplaceable role in cutting off the _Selenya _colony's communication channels, as well as a couple of other things, but he is used to that – after all that time, the doctors on the team still think that their academic education makes them somewhat superior to a mere technician. With Fronsard and Stravinski, he is willing to put up with the nonsense most of the time, since despite being cold bastards, both possess _brains_. On the whole, he would have preferred a bit of warmth from Stravinski, since she is actually quite attractive, with her reddish curls and brown eyes. Romero generally prefers brunettes, but given the circumstances, he'd be willing to step down and try out the famed red-head heat, if only Stravinski showed a grain of appreciation of his Latino charm. His tech skill is appreciated more, but Romero doesn't recall that it would ever help him bang someone, and it seems that Stravinski won't be an exception.

The rest of the research team, assembled in the control room, are at various stages of waking up, which Romero finds rather amusing, since Stravinski is apparently irritated by it. _Things or people not working seems to be the only thing that gets her excited._ Under her glare, Zanna Leitmeyer, the chief field worker, straightens up in her chair and stifles a yawn. "So? Do our plans change somehow?"

"No. Unless there is some problem with the lure network. Mr Romero?"

He feels offended:_ hasn't it been tested ad nauseam with those colonist fools? _"But of course not," he replies smoothly. "The girls will dance around as we want them."

This elicits the usual sour look. As a chief researcher, it was Stravinski's privilege to name the objects of the research, which, for reasons known solely to her, resulted in referring to the threshers as males and naming them Susannoo, Baratheon and Nabucadnesar. Within a fortnight, Romero nicked them Suzie, Babs and Nancy and started referring to them as "girls"… and within another fortnight, the new naming system was picked up by the whole base.

Stravinski quickly switches the topic. "Let us take a look at our Alliance… _friends_."

Romero is fairly sure she meant _test subjects_, but this is really inconsequential. He taps into the Alliance databases. "SSV cruiser Warsaw. Captain: Valeriy Tarasov. XO: Lieutenant-Commander Mohinder Sarajhava – Sarajahva – something."

"That's not the guys that'll be leading the shore party," Fronsard remarks. "Take a look at the lower commanding staff."

Romero sighs. '_Was just getting there_. Skipping the various Staff Commanders and other ranks which are of absolutely no meaning to him, he reads: "Anita DuBois, Gze Samekh, Connor Shepard…"

As he drones the list of names, he wonders which of the guys will have the honour to serve the science, with more than just a little help of ingenious Mr Romero.

* * *

At the early hour, the mess hall is almost empty, which provides Shepard an opportunity for undisturbed reading with his breakfast. He takes his time, the quality of the meal can hardly decrease by getting cold. Page by page, he shuffles through the reports on his PDA one last time, making sure he didn't miss a thing.

"A bit too late for your homework, LT," Lyuba Chen remarks as she puts down her tray with food next to his. "So, what are we up to? Man-eating locusts, spaghetti flying monsters, intelligent acidic cloud from darkspace?"

"I see nothing to contradict the assumption that it was a raid by some stragglers from the Blitz who got too bold for their own good," Shepard assesses. "A well prepared raid with a little sabotage, since the colony never had the time to call for help. There are no reports of natural catastrophes or epidemics, and there aren't supposed to be any dangerous critters around here, either," he brings up a map of Akuze on his omnitool and points at a rather large butterfly-shaped continent. "There are reports of some poisonous insects in the tropical forest in the northern part, but the colony is only here," he indicates the central part of the butterfly, next to the ocean, "and that's mostly grasslands, with a rather bland biotope."

"Vast, empty plains, exposed to the sun and wind, with nothing to please the eye except the tits of the colonists' young daughters whom we are going to save from the fate worse than death," a voice recites exaggeratedly from the doorway.

Chen rolls her eyes and Shepard feels much like doing the same, especially as Toshio slams his tray on the table and places his boots next to it, rocking on the chair so that it balances on two legs.

_Oh, my. Toshio at his best. Goodbye, peaceful breakfast._

It is absolutely past Shepard why Toshio's otherwise brilliant mind indulges in playing jackass so much but since he never manages to resist getting involved in them himself, as well, he is in no position to complain. Sighing, he puts aside the PDA, as he isn't going to do much reading now. "Hate to break it on you, Iaeda, but this was a pioneering team. No young daughters."

"And you tell me only now?" Toshio crosses his ankles, ignoring Lyuba's intent stare burning through his soles. "Where's the _fun_?"

"If you don't put those feet down, you'll have your fun in no time," Lyuba mutters darkly. "It's not been so long since I was wiping your ass for you and I'll damn well teach you some manners."

"Ouch. You've broken my heart, Lyubochka." Toshio puts his hand over the said organ and bats his lashes. In response, Lyuba's hands start glowing faintly blue and the tea cup on Toshio's tray trembles dangerously.

Sighing inwardly, Shepard stretches his leg under the table and kicks the chair from under Toshio, sending him to the floor.

As expected, Toshio lands in a smooth somersault, grinning as he manages to save the chair from falling. "If this was an attempt on me, you'll have to give it a better try."

"It was an attempt on your jackassism," Shepard mutters into his coffee, grimacing at the taste. "I'll kill it as many times as I have to."

Toshio's grin broadens. "Someone's in need of a surgery here, I see. An urgent case of a stick up the arse…"

"Mind your own arse, Iaeda."

In response, Toshio bats his lashes again and sends him a kiss.

_Don't you _dare _to remind me of _that_._

Mostly, Shepard has no qualms about jackassing a little here and there, but… mostly. The rest of the cases are those he would much like to forget.

Luckily, Sheckley and Wei choose that moment to enter the mess hall, followed by a couple of other marines, which spares Shepard the need to answer, as Toshio switches from jackass to Sergeant in no time. Unfortunately, the serious mode lasts only until Denisova comes for breakfast, unusually early by her standards, and starts questioning Toshio in the matter of her shower gel which got mysteriously replaced by "Passion of the Turian Night" perfume and which she found out only when she poured the thing over her.

Watching with amusement in her slanted eyes, Lyuba sniffs ostensibly towards Denisova. "That stuff is definitely… potent, Corporal. Not sure if it's not against the regs, though…"

"Why, there was a reg against chemical warfare?" Toshio wonders innocently. "We'll just place Yelochka in the first line…"

Denisova's eyes sparkle lightnings and she grits through her teeth something that suspiciously reminds of '_matyeryebets'_, even though she takes care she is not heard at the other tables.

_Ah, Iaeda. Always daring to pull the tigress by her tail, huh?_

Shepard only hopes that Deni will not exact her revenge during the mission, and, since if these two screw up, Tarasov will have _his_ balls for that, he decides to make sure she doesn't. "Listen, you two," he says softly. "Keep this for after we're done down there, or you'll both be painfully sorry."

Yelena and Toshio simultaneously roll their eyes. "Aye aye, sir. Understood," she assures him with an expression that is not reassuring in the least. For the pretty girl that she is, she has a nasty smile on occasions. And the way she exchanges looks with Toshio is even more disturbing.

Shepard suppresses another sigh. _Mess with someone's fun, and you get declared public enemy number one_. When they get back from Akuze, he will have to be careful around his things, or he is in for a nasty surprise.

Maybe he should make use of the time and plan a pre-emptive strike.

* * *

Standing half-hidden in the entrance of the cargo bay, Tarasov watches Sergeant Iaeda issuing orders: the very embodiment of professionalism. _One would almost be taken in_, Tarasov assesses. For the umpteenth time, he ponders whether he actually likes Iaeda or not; as before, the matter remains unresolved. The reports from action are flattering, the service performance brilliant… and the constant pranks are… well… _pranks_. Idiotic.

Though some of them even Tarasov himself finds hilarious.

A prankster on board keeps good mood among the crew, provided he knows where to stop, which, miraculously, Iaeda does – most of the time.

Even so, Tarasov would probably have postponed his promotion to Sergeant, if not for Shepard's recommendation.

_Shepard._

Keeping his usual cold poker-face, Tarasov smiles inwardly. Those two, practically inseparable, are a strange pair at first sight: slender, elegant Iaeda, displaying delicate aristocratic features, and more robust Shepard, whose deep-set eyes in a somewhat crude face seemingly make him a candidate for grumpiness. To a perfunctory observer, their similarities end at the dark colour of eyes and hair.

Tarasov, however, knows better. Fast and precise reflexes; keen strategic minds; quick and correct on-spot decision making, calm and rational no matter what shit hits the fan. Both bound for a stellar career, provided that Iaeda learns to keep his love for pranks under control.

And provided that Shepard stops participating in them.

_Really, one would never imagine what the serious-looking Shepard might be capable of._ Tarasov's expression under his heroic moustache does not change but _that_ little moment was also stellar, especially because Shepard will never forget it. _It's good for young officers to have their fifteen minutes of shame, especially the bright ones, or they might get too big for themselves_.

Though, to be honest, Shepard's main problem doesn't seem to be an inflated ego; rather, a certain… _easygoingness_… that often accompanies natural brilliance: why bother striving to do his best when he _is_ already among the best even without that much effort._ A most irritating trait. Where the heck did it come from? _Tarasov never knew Fareed Shepard before his tragic demise, but Hannah served briefly with him as a young Lieutenant, and he has kept an eye on her commendable career progress ever since: _no, this trait of Shepard's is definitely not from her. He can easily follow in her footsteps, even surpass her, if he learns to utilise all his potential. Soldiering runs deep in the family, he has a lot to build on._

Where Iaeda, a Yokohama street brat, got his talents, is past Tarasov, but he is willing to give him a chance to test his mettles, as well. Shepard insisted that the responsibility coming with the rank would tune down his wildness, and Tarasov is slowly coming to acknowledge the correctness of the assessment.

_Both for Iaeda _and_ for Shepard himself._

His conviction slightly wavers, noticing Corporal Denisova eyeing Iaeda over the cargo bay with a predatory concentration. Feeling her stare, the young man slowly turns and flashes her a broad smile. The next moment, he almost stumbles over a box that, just a second ago, was a few metres away, and this time it is Denisova who flashes an innocent smile while the blue sheen over her body is quickly fading.

Gritting his teeth, Tarasov steps back into the corridor, so that he can pretend he never saw the incident and doesn't have to act on it.

_Corporal Yelena Denisova_, _awarded a medal of honour for her feats in the aftermath of the Blitz. The very biotic you want to cover your ass, but other than that_… Tarasov has seen his share of innocent brown eyes to be able to tell that the girl is _trouble_.

_Iaeda, apparently, has to learn his lesson yet._

The girl is very subtle but Tarasov is quite sure that some of the wildest pranks were incited by her… including the one on New Year's Eve, when two certain very drunk young officers indulged in something that suspiciously looked like fraternizing just before Staff Commander Huxley's cabin.

Tarasov sighs. Contrary to the common opinion, he doesn't eat regs for breakfast, nor has ink in his veins instead of blood, and seeing the always stoical SC's jaw drop and eyes bulge belongs to the moments he will fondly remember on his pension – even though he is pretty sure that the scene was staged, for exactly this purpose.

Both Tarasov and Huxley stepped back, then, to pretend they never saw – and Iaeda and Shepard never asked why they received extra duties the next three months.

_Responsibility. Keep them occupied and under pressure._

When under pressure, they perform best and never fail the task. Never, during all of the Skyllian Blitz or afterwards, and Akuze will be no different, of that Tarasov is sure. Though it will only be a third mission with Shepard in charge, he has no doubt that it will be handled with the usual efficiency. Except Iaeda, all the Sergeants are experienced veterans, with reliable Lyubov Chen as the platoon sergeant…

No, the mission will definitely run smoothly; his – _his_ – pranksters will wreak havoc only afterwards. The news of Corporal Denisova's improved showergel has already made it all around the ship; reciprocation is bound to follow.

In a way, Tarasov is looking forward to it.

* * *

_A/N: It is not stated when Shepard started his N training and the common opinons are that Akuze was either the feat that brought him the invitation to the N-Academy, or a part of his N6 training. I'm going by the former, since he still has plenty of time ahead to become the no-nonsense badass Commander, and I don't believe that he was already born that way._


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

_Arriving on the surface, your patrol found the settlement intact, but there were no survivors_.

* * *

"Such a nice view," Toshio mutters to his comm on a private frequency. "Looks a bit like that place on Terra Nova on our last shoreleave… you think Yela packed that red bikini along?"

Shepard snorts: the infamous red bikini was nothing but an intricate set of triangles and strings. The strings were tied on the hips, which unmistakably provoked both of them to try and untie them, until Deni got pissed for earnest and used her biotics to pull them under the water. _Not that getting half drowned stopped Toshio for long._

The crude simple structures of the colonists' living units look nothing like the polished seaside resort Denisova took them to but otherwise, Shepard is inclined to agree: the setting in a broad valley, near a meandering river flowing into the sea, looks like a perfect spot for holidays, some time in Akuze's future. There is a sufficiently large area for a spaceport, and the heavy landworks in the hills, indicating the presence of rich ore sources which prompted the colonisation, are in sufficient distance not to bother holiday-makers. All in all, Akuze seemed to be heading for a bright start… until something brought it to an unexpected abrupt stop.

_What the hell has happened here?_

Zooming the valley in through the visor, Shepard sees no signs of fight or destruction; the scans show no energy signatures… _though these can be masked, better not rely on them._ Everything looks serene and undisturbed… and forsaken. Not a single soul around, no movement.

"Approach with caution," Shepard commands, more than a little fearing what they might find _within_ the units.

* * *

"Nothing, sir," Wei reports quite unnecessarily; Shepard has already seen most there is to see himself. The structures are undamaged, personal possessions neatly placed in lockers, valuables in safes, equipment in cases… only the owners are gone. Not a single body, no trace of blood.

"What the hell has happened here?" Chen mutters. "Did everyone just decide to take a walk?"

"Rather a ride," Shepard retorts. "There are apparently too few vehicles, for a colony of this size. Let's see what the technicians come up with once they renew the power supply and get into the databases."

Yet, the data of the _Selenya_ colony provide no clue, either. Several transmitter malfunctions and power blackouts, occasional data corruptions… minor problems caused mainly by violent storms. "Nothing. Nothing suspicious or spectacular." Radio technician Biagi hesitates and glances at his squad leader.

With a stone face, Sergeant Adams reciprocates the look. "Drop the bullshit, Biagi."

"Oh, come on," Iaeda smirks. "Even bullshit is at least _something_. Do tell us, Feddy."

The technician keeps a perfect poker face. "I've found a notable collection of asari porn."

This provokes chuckles and remarks among the sergeants, except Adams and Tarrega – the former is never provoked by anything, the latter pretends most of the time that alien sex does not exist. Shepard suspects the she would much rather extend the nonexistence to the aliens as such, but with her background of a Mindoir survivor, he cannot really blame her.

"Quit the chit-chat," Shepard orders and uploads the updated map to his omnitool, "We have to keep searching. Since there is nothing to be found in the colony proper, we will make use of the time and check the facilities. We'll see if we find some clues around that hill mining."

Looking at his own omnitool, Toshio snorts. "Let me spare you the disappointment: we won't. It'll be over the hills and onto the plains, because, as we all know…"

"…riding Makos is better than riding a hot asari maiden." Lyuba Chen rolls her eyes. "Sure, you've made this point only about fifty or sixty times, we might not remember it yet."

_Shut up, Toshio, or I'll send you to do the exploring on your own, to let you fully enjoy your ass-shaking all day long._

The number of the spots to be checked over the hills is daunting: several dozen, scattered wide and far, with some clustering around two locations.

"What the hell did the colony of this size need all those stations for?" Iaeda voices Shepard's thought. "Did they have a quota for this? Like, one station per each colonist?"

"Most are just automatic meteostations – the weather is rather unpredictable here. Also…" Federico Biagi leans forward to the console to check the data "…monitoring seismic activity."

Shepard frowns. "What for? I don't recall any reports of notable seismic activity."

"Could be movements of unstable strata," Tarrega suggests softly. "And due to heavy rainfall, there might be landslides… even lahar. If something is a plain, it doesn't mean it is entirely flat all along, the land is always… rolling…"

'_The rolling fields of Mindoir, swept in a bloody wave of the batarian raid.' The phrase caught on, no documentary or news report fails to use it._

_Rosario shouldn't have been sent on this mission. What the hell was Tarasov thinking?_

_What was _I_ thinking, not to consider this?_

Adams, with his priceless calm demeanour, saves them from lingering silence. "So, meteostations, seismicity monitors… anything else?"

"The logs report preparatory works to establish a surface mine over here," Shepard points at one of the clusters on the map. "A considerable group of workers was sent there to build accommodation for more workforce. The other spot is supposed to be an oil refinery under construction."

"These seem like places that might draw attention of raiders. Easily available resources, next to no resistance…" For such a bulky man, Abdul Ramirez has a surprisingly high-pitched voice.

"There is also a report among the last log entries of a service team sent to the refinery site, to fix some problem with the crane," Biagi remarks. "And I haven't found any entry of their return."

Shepard taps his fingers on his forearm plating. "Alright. Provided we don't find a thing in the hills... Sergeant Chen. Take Ramirez and scout the refinery, and check the meteostations along the way and around. Rendezvous for the night and build a camp. I'll go with Adams, Tarrega and Iaeda to explore that mine and the surrounding area, and we rendezvous for the night, as well. Tomorrow, we continue investigating those stations further to the south."

Toshio performs an exaggerated salute. "Aye aye, sir. We'll be back to mommy before the dark."

Shepard ignores him and turns to Lyuba. "Report to me regularly and keep your eyes open for anything unusual. Maintain the safety rules for high biohazard environment, in case the colonists contracted something that didn't make it into the reports."

As the sergeants depart to their respective squads, Iaeda stays behind. "Even if the colonists split into two teams and went to those two locations, why didn't they leave at least some maintenance behind? Why not mention it in the reports?

"That's what I've been wondering, as well," Shepard admits in a low voice. "Something stinks here, Tosh, but I can't put my finger on what it is. They may just have been lazy with their log, or it could have got lost during the power failures, but…"

He does not have to finish the sentence, Toshio nods in understanding. Disappearance of data _and_ of the colonists is hardly a coincidence.

A sabotage, a slaver raid, a terrorist attack? None of these are notorious for not leaving tracks.

_More than sixty people gone missing. Something stinks here. Very, very much._

* * *

Listening to the transmission of the various bugs planted around the colony, Romero smirks. First Lieutenant Shepard has _no_ idea how easy it was to lure off the unsuspecting colonists.

Flexing his fingers, he leans to his console, initiating a series of long-prepared steps.

It feels like directing a magnificent orchestra… every player, every instrument in its place.

"Surprise, guys. Some hot girls waiting…"

* * *

The monotonous hum of the Mako engines is lulling; the levelled terrain is no challenge to the vehicle's abilities. The colonists did a profound work there, building an access road not only to the future mine but opening a route over the hills, in preparation of exploiting the sites in the plains. According to Shepard's data, a new batch of colonists, over a hundred people, were to arrive within a few weeks, to pick up on the work and start the business proper, and even more were due once the process ran smoothly.

The scheduled program went to hell as Akuze inexplicably fell silent.

Despite Shepard's best attempts, he can't figure out what went possibly wrong. The pioneering team had been working there for months, so why did they run into trouble now?

_To prevent more settlers from coming_, whispers a cold voice in his head, only it states no reason why it should be so. Competing corporations, mercs' territorial claims, smugglers cleaning their favourite den, alien powerplay?

No matter which one it was, the question remains: _how_. None of the reasons explain the lack of bodies and traces of fight.

Frustrated, Shepard closes his eyes for a moment: _this is leading nowhere. Wait and see_.

As expected, the hill mine provides no clue to the colonists' fate, and so they split and leave for the plains. The journey quickly becomes boring: mild terrain waves from horizon to horizon, covered with lush green, low wiry grass and an occasional patch of low shrubs. The first meteostation provides no information, except for the amount of rainfall in the area; neither does the second, third…

The humming of the engines lulls to sleep.

The beep of the comm sounds unnaturally loud.

"Lyuba on the comm, LT," Biagi announces.

"You wanted whatever comes unusual." Lyuba's face gives way to a view of the plain: the uniform green of the grass is speckled with patches of bare ground. "FYI, those bare spots are several metres in diameter. They're quite fresh, the grass didn't manage to cover them fully yet. – Though, it's difficult to estimate, we don't know how fast it's supposed to grow. Also, the soil seems a bit loose there, as if after some excavation works, but that's difficult to assess, as well – it's rather sandy, and I really have no idea if it's loose because it got excavated, or if it's so loose naturally here and the vegetation got washed away with rain. Those meteostations we have passed on our way show quite heavy rainfall. Any ideas?"

No, Shepard has no idea, neither now nor later, when his team encounters one such spot, with a burnt, half-molten skeleton of a truck sunk axle-deep into the soil.

_A missile blast? Who would bother with rockets against an unarmed vehicle? To prevent them from radioing for help?_

Kneeling, Shepard takes a handful of soil and watches it flow between his fingers.

_No clue. Still no clue._

* * *

When they arrive at the mining site, located among low pecks of rock protruding from the ground, the sight of the destruction only increases Shepard's confusion. There is not a single structure intact: some are upturned, others crushed with a huge force, while yet others bear signs of fire and possibly some acidic agent, burning through holes and melting the metal and plastic alike.

"It doesn't make sense." Adams is looking around, shaking his head. "Neither slavers nor raiders would wreak such a massive destruction; those who did this were neither after people nor resources. But who would bother to kill off dozens of harmless colonists for no good reason?"

"Someone who wanted to send a message." Iaeda's eyes are narrowed to slits, yet taking in every single detail. "The destruction is a purpose in itself."

"There is no use sending a message if you don't sign it. "Rosario Tarrega speaks in her usual soft tone, yet Shepard feels chills running down his spine. "This is revenge. The same pattern as always. A strike at those who cannot defend themselves, to curb our hopes and bring us down. And then, they cover up their tracks… because we would _retaliate_."

_Can she be right? Is this revenge in batarian style, for constantly stepping on their toes? For the Blitz itself? If we find some proof of their involvement, there will be war, the Alliance won't leave such a provocation unanswered._

Shepard subconsciously tightens his grip on his assault rifle. He glances at Denisova, standing nearby in a seemingly relaxed poise, and not the first time he wonders what would have happened then if the three of them had gone for their shoreleave on Elysium, to Yelena's family.

_Revenge._

_Don't screw this, Shepard. If the batarians want revenge, they will get more than they asked for. I'll make sure of that._

"Patch me through to Tarasov," he commands Biagi.

* * *

Overhearing the broadcast to _Warsaw_, Romero can't help but chuckle: the military brains are _so_ very predictable. Across the room, he exchanges an amused look and a wink with Armistan Banes. Unlike the other doctors, Banes doesn't behave as if his diploma turned his shit into gold – and, what Romero appreciates best, he is not afraid of _field_ work. Romero will never forget the thrill as the three of them, with Zanna Leitmeyer, were installing the first decoys, never knowing where the thresher was at the moment.

But there is the time to sow and to reap, as they say, and now it's the latter.

* * *

The mining site yields no more information, and so Shepard sends his three squads on their individual routes, to check the meteostations in the area, and decide to go with Tarrega instead of Adams, to keep his eye on her.

His decision, though, is encountered with a violent protest.

"Don't cuddle me, Shepard!" The quiet, soft-spoken Rosario flashes lightnings from her dark eyes. "First the Old Wolf, now you – I'm a big girl, you know, I can cope! Don't you think that if I had a problem with this mission, I would have told you? I'm not gonna break down sobbing, or start butchering batarians on sight when we need proof! I'm perfectly able to carry out my mission on my own, without you watching my ass!"

Adams and Iaeda have the decency to pretend they never heard the outburst but even so, Shepard feels heat rising to his face. For a moment, he considers pushing the _order_, but then takes a breath and calms down. "No offence meant, Rosario," he says softly, and as she drops her eyes, he adds, "and none taken."

Rosario's anger is quickly spent. "I-I'm sorry, LT," she whispers, "but I need to do this on my own. Will you let me?"

To ease the tension, Shepard grins. "I guess Adams would miss me. I'll make sure he prepares you a nice cosy tent. Dismissed, Sergeant."

"What about me?" Iaeda fakes an offended tone. "Why don't you even ask if _I_ couldn't use some cuddling?" Then, he nods towards Denisova, standing near a Mako, oblivious to their exchange. "Ah, I see… your saviour instincts still running high… but if you let Yelena know that you consider her a damsel in distress, she'll rip off your balls."

_And I'll rip off your head soon._ "Shut up, will you?"

"Is that an order?"

Shaking his head, Shepard makes for Adams' Mako. The long day of Akuze provides several hours of daylight for exploration… if there is a thing to be found.

* * *

The whole base is gathered in the main room, watching the progress of the three squads along the routes of decoys masked as meteostations, each in a separate direction. The one heading south, towards the great red diamond marking the location of the thresher maw Baratheon aka Babs, is followed closely by the weather satellite's cameras.

Once the thresher was lured into the area by the pulses of the decoy, Romero changed the frequency into gentle vibrations which the threshers seem to find pleasurable.

From what can be concluded from the satellite, Babs has coiled underground to rest.

* * *

Sergeant Rosario Tarrega never knows what killed her: one moment, the regular humming of the Mako's motors and the golden light of the setting sun bring her back to the long rides home in her father's truck, from the fields of Mindoir; the other, the vehicle is suddenly launched to the air with an abrupt movement of the ground. As it lands, upturned, something hits it with a force of a mega hammer, crushing most of the plating and puncturing the fuel tanks, which explode in a fiery blast.

The other Mako, driven by Corporal Sayalal, barely has the time to respond: Babs the thresher maw is already disappearing under the ground before Sayalal makes a turn, and since he is trying to figure out what next while riding along the same trajectory, Babs determines the encounter point in no time and acts accordingly.

When disturbed from their rest, threshers are the worst.

* * *

"Yay!" Romero slaps into Banes' outstretched hand; even Fronsard watches the satellite transmission with a grin. Babs performed exactly as predicted, to the delight of the majority of the crew who bet their money on her.

The minority, represented by Julianna Stravinski, who never allows herself to cheer, and Hubert Wayne, who placed his bets on the marines, watches in silence as the thresher crushes the military vehicle open, to start feeding. Its scaly surface glistens in the setting sun, as it coils with snake-like elegance against the dark clouds on the eastern horizon.

It's an aesthetic prologue to the drama which is about to unveil.

* * *

"Look what you're doing, asshole!"

"'Love you, too, Deni!"

Shepard raises his head from his omnitool, to look at Ryan and Denisova, installing a turret at the perimeter of the camp. The sun is going down in a golden blaze against the greenish sky of Akuze; thanks to the cooling system of his hardsuit, he feels none of the heat hovering in the air.

They have set a camp in an open plain, on between two terrain waves too low to be actually called hillocks; on tops of these, turrets are placed to guard the circle of tents and Makos. The raiders are most probably long gone, yet Shepard won't be taking any chances.

What troubles him, though, is the complete lack of traces of their presence, as well as complete absence of bodies. If Tarrega is right in her assessment, there should be at least some remnants; human remains don't just evaporate without a trace, not due to conventional missiles. Lyuba Chen's report form the refinery site confirms the same story – vast destruction, but no survivors and no bodies.

His thoughts are interrupted by Biagi, calling him on a private frequency: "Sir… could you come over?"

"On my way." With a pang of unease, Shepard walks over to the Mako where the chief technician is operating the comm.

After the vastness of the open area, the inside of the Mako feels even more cramped than usually. As he enters, Biagi turns to him, with a worried expression. "Sir, I can't establish contact with Tarrega's squad."

Shepard feels his stomach turn into a tight lump. "What?"

"They should have reported by now but didn't, so I radioed them… the link is blank."

Shepard takes a deep breath. _Don't panic_. Activating his omnitool, he checks the geography of the area that Tarrega's squad was to explore and looks for depressions or anomalies that might block the signal.

He finds none.

"Try the other frequencies."

While Biagi does so, Shepard is doing his best to keep calm. _Captain, I've lost a squad somewhere around here…_ he swallows hard. There's nothing to be done. After a few more unsuccessful attempts, he commands: "Contact the Warsaw." Leaning over Biagi's shoulder, he addresses the comm officer. "Shepard to Warsaw. We cannot establish contact with Sergeant Tarrega's squad. Can you give it a try?"

While he passes on the last known coordinates, as well as the supposed travel route, Tarasov appears on the screen. Listening to Shepard's report, the furrow between his brows deepens. "Not much you can do before nightfall, Lieutenant. Keep trying to reach them, we'll scan the area. Meanwhile, increased alertness, and notify Sergeant Chen and Iaeda. Tarasov out."

Supporting with his hand against the seat, Shepard closes his eyes for a moment. _Tarrega. Owada. Thompson. Sheckley… Where the hell are you? What's happened?_

"You've heard," he tells Biagi. "Keep trying, and patch me through to Chen and Iaeda."

* * *

The light has acquired rich hues of orange and pink and the eastern sky has turned dark blue. The line of spotlights around the camp is slowly glowing up; the darkness will fall in a matter of minutes.

Under the pretext of checking the camp, Shepard is pacing around, doing his best to mask his unease; no matter how often he sips from the recycled water reservoirs, his mouth remains dry.

Tarrega's squad still hasn't reported. _Warsaw_'s scans found only a local storm in the area, possibly disrupting both the radio and energy signatures, but it is rather unconvincing: they should be able to pick at least _something_.

_A whole squad gone missing without a trace._ In the growing dark, Shepard has to overcome the urge to radio Lyuba and Toshio once more, to make sure everything is alright.

_Calm down, man. Lyuba and Abdul have safely rendezvoused, and Toshio will be here in half an hour. Rosario…_

_Never had the chance to radio… just like the colonists._

_No._

_When that storm is over, she will undoubtedly report. She must._

He almost manages to convince himself, when he hears Biagi's voice in the comm again, shrill with panic. "Shepard! I've got Lyuba on the radio… patching her through!"

Suddenly, his ears are flooded with a cacophony of sounds, almost drowning Lyuba's voice: "…under attack… repeat, Shepard, we're under attack!"

_Damn_. _I knew it. _"What is it? Who is attacking you?"

"Hell if I know! It's – get out of there, Gomez, fast! Toombs, to the right – to the right!" Behind Lyuba's yelled orders, he can hear gunfire, the dry snapping of shotguns and the more prominent rounds of turrets. Shouting… incoherent screams. Deep, almost ultrasound growling. Panting, as Chen apparently sprints, and a shot of her rifle, followed by her cursing: "Damn the bastard! – Shepard, don't know what it is but it's huge – huge! It crawls underground like some fucking earthworm but it has teeth and limbs. First the ground started to shake, then it suddenly burst up in the middle of the camp! It snatched Dalimil and just dragged him below! Then it – oh, shit! What's – "

A wet sound, as if a profound splash landed on a solid surface. He hears Lyuba gasp and she starts saying something, which suddenly turns into a scream of horror, and pain.

"Lyuba? Lyubochka! Can you hear me? What's up?"

But the only answer are screams of agony, acquiring a strange, bubbling quality, until they cease altogether with a single shaky gasp, and all he hears are the background sounds of gunfire and shouts, until the radio goes abruptly silent.

Despite the hardsuit's cooling system, Shepard finds himself sweating profoundly. He has to take a few breath to calm himself before he is able to speak. "Attention, everyone. We have a situation. It's –"

"Hey, what's that?" He's interrupted by the scream of the young Johnny Bellamy, and then he feels it, too: the ground starting to shake, and a deep rumbling sound, quickly approaching.

* * *

**_A/N_**_: Just to make clear why the story took this route. Threshers are supposed to be up to 90 metres long. Even though I don't expect the Akuze threshers to be Kalros-sized, a beast half that size is still too huge to pass under and around any structure without damaging it, so I assumed that if the settlement was intact, the attack had to happen elsewhere. Also, both due to their size and their supposed "fierce territoriality", I can't see the threshers operating simultanesoulsy in a single (rather small, by their standards) area, where they would be likely to attack each other instead of their prey, anyway. Similarly, fifty marines are unlikely to operate en masse, so I separated both the threshers and the marines. I situated the main drama into the plains, as burrowed vegetation along the thresher routes would be too telling unless it's something that regrows fast, and the threshers would totally destroy any other biotop, anyway. The system of the Cerberus lures is borrowed not just from the game but from the Dune, as well as the recyclation function of the hardsuit that was never mentioned in the game (and if there was a zipper somewhere on Shepard's armour, I must have missed it)._


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

_At nightfall, the thresher maws struck – mindless abominations of teeth and tentacles that rose from beneath the earth. Constant gunfire couldn't drown out the shrieks of your fellow soldiers as they were dragged down to a gruesome death._

_A nightmare. A living nightmare._

" – _hey, hey, there it's coming, look out, folks! – "_

" – _the maw, aim for the maw – "_

Shepard shoots one more round and sprints to a new position, barely stopping to check his surrounding through the night visor, and instantly moves on, in a different direction, on the shaking ground.

" – _fucking bastard, die already! – "_

A new eruption of soil, to his left, just before a running marine, possibly Nomfunbaneko, or maybe Olafsen; desperately, he sends there a round, in unison with the man's gun.

That _thing_ doesn't even slow down, bearing down on the marine, his scream piercing the background of gunfire and yelling and _deep growling_.

_A nightmare there is no chance to wake from._

The flickering light of the burning Mako reflects on the scaly surface, on the numerous tentacles bringing the screaming man to the cavity lined with long, glistening teeth, even as it is disappearing in the ground again.

" – _run out of grenades – "_

" – _on your six – "_

" – _run, Deni, run! – "_

From what Shepard can see, the thing _can_ be hurt… but due to its sheer size, the wounds which would have brought down a krogan are merely scratches for the beast.

_Half the squad gone, and we have barely _scratched_ it._

Mako's cannon would have done it, but one got upturned as the beast emerged from the ground the first time, and the other was targeted as soon as Adams fired the first time.

_See you on the other side, Adams. Just hang on a sec, we won't take long._

For a second, his hopes flared when Wei managed to plant a grenade in the beast's maw. The next moment, though, the thing, furiously howling, simply crushed the Private under its weight, revealing metres and metres of its body, sliding out and back into the ground.

_At least twenty metres long… A twenty-metres long, tentacled, toothed worm, spitting some acid. How come the reports never mentioned this?_

"Noooo…. help – help – aaah!"

The deep growling, and crunching sounds as the hardsuit is being crushed.

_We don't stand a chance._

With Jane Artsanidu's mortal screams still in his ears, Shepard commands: "Fall back! Fall back, disperse! We can't hope to kill it like this! Retreat! Don't bother shooting, run!"

_Run and hope that you won't be the one it will be after._

Run.

More screams. _Appleton_. Appleton, who was shot six times in the last encounter with raiders and yet kept fighting until they drove the batarians back.

The screams seem endless, echoing even when the only remaining sounds are those of his own rapid breath and his heart pounding in his ears in expectation of vibrations under his feet, announcing the inevitable fate.

_Vibrations._

Abruptly, Shepard comes to a halt. He swallows hard, hesitating for a split of a second before issuing the command: "Stop. Stop, don't move. That thing can probably feel the vibrations of our footsteps. Don't move, only very cautiously and slowly."

_Could it have infravision, as well?_

"Find some depression in the ground and lie down. Whatever happens, stay put and don't move. Radio silence but stay on the comm. Shepard out."

_Let it loose track. Please, let it not find anyone else…_

* * *

"'Thinks fast," Stravinski assesses, and Romero agrees. The colonists were much slower to figure out, if they did at all. Mostly, they didn't.

"So, what now?" he asks. "If Suzie doesn't get any clue soon, she will lose interest."

Stravinski ponders for a moment. "Not yet. We can lure her back any time if necessary. I want our studying material perform a little longer."

* * *

Feeling the vibrations of the burrowing with his whole body, Shepard instinctively presses closer to the ground.

_Can that thing hear? Can it perceive radio frequencies?_

Just one way to find out, and he has to do it, anyway. He switches on the comm. "Sergeant Iaeda."

"Shepard?" Toshio's voice is hushed, the reception far from ideal. "What the hell has been going on? Why didn't you respond – "

"Shut up and listen. Where are you?"

"Nearly there… about ten miles to go."

"Retreat immediately, at full speed. Make a broad detour and head for the landing zone, ASAP." To the shocked silence on the other side, Shepard hastily summarizes the attack, scraping his brain for any piece of useful advice. "Look out for any signs of underground activity and maintain distance between the transporters. If it comes at you, make random turns and never stop. Try to get it in crossfire and aim at the maw, there don't seem to be any vital organs in the body, or it's too hard to penetrate."

He hears Toshio gulp. "We could still try and pick you up… sir."

Shepard squeezes his eyes tight shut. "No way," he replies. "That thing can definitely feel vibrations, the vehicles are too heavy to escape its attention. Our best chances are to stay put and hope it will leave eventually." He takes a breath. "See you later, Toshio."

"See you, Connor. _Sayonara_."

"_Sayonara_. Now, patch me through to Tarasov. – And – and, Toshio, if I don't make it, tell mom – tell my mother what needs be told."

In his mind, he can see Toshio bow his head as he replies solemnly: "I will."

* * *

"Ten miles?" Romero looks at the vibration sensors reading and nods. "Over here," he indicates an area on the screen. The bright green spots mark the locations of thumpers. "Sooo… shall we?"

As he expected, Stravinski nods.

Romero activates the lures ahead of Sergeant Iaeda' anticipated route.

The vibrations of the heavy military vehicles will do the rest.

* * *

The signal of the personal comm, amplified by Mako's transmitter, is disrupted with atmospheric disturbances, yet clear enough to understand what is being said – though Tarasov would much rather that this was some misunderstanding or that his senses were deluding him. _One squad lost without a trace. Two more massacred within minutes, another nearly so…Chen, Tarrega, Ramirez… _Feeling his own consternation reflected in the face of the young comm officer, he takes effort to speak calmly. "Stay where you are, Lieutenant. I'm sending down a shuttle."

A pause. "Negative, sir, it would be too dangerous. That thing is still lurking around, and can move very fast. It definitely has senses attuned to the dark, and that stuff it spits is strong enough to burn through a Mako hull in no time. If the shuttle gets hit, we'll be worse off than before."

Tarasov slowly releases his breath between his teeth. "What do you propose then, Shepard?"

"We'll wait out some time and then try to slowly move out of the area. Should the thing still keep hanging around, we may even try walking slowly back towards the colony."

_That will be a damned long walk_. "Very well. I'll move the _Warsaw_ to orbit over your position to establish easier contact, and extract Sergeant Iaeda's squad once they reach the safe landing zone. Hold on down there. Tarasov out."

* * *

"Like hell you will," Romero mutters, following the radio communication. "Rendezvous soon…"

"If that fucking cruiser's gonna hang up above there, they might intercept our transmissions," Wayne remarks.

David Romero rolls his eyes, giving a rather uncomplimenting thought to the doctor's idea of a tech's work. "Meteo stations communicating with a weather satellite on a regular basis? Why should they bother following that? Besides, even if they do, they'd have to pay real close attention to find those commands in the data streams."

He leans back in the chair, stretches his legs and starts whistling, since he knows Wayne hates it.

"Shouldn't you be doing something useful?" comes immediately a gruff response.

"No need to." Stravinski doesn't even raise her head from her console. "Everything has been taken care of. That mobile team will be encountered in no time, and those few stragglers Lieutenant Shepard has won't run anywhere. We don't need to move a finger now."

* * *

The ground starts shaking again, the vibrations and noise of the huge burrowing amplifying fast.

_Oh, fuck_. _Here it comes again_. Shepard's hand grabs a grenade, expecting the inevitable and determined not to go down alone.

Then, in a single instant, the ground under him rises and falls again… the vibrations and noise decreasing until they disappear in a distance.

The death has passed by, and didn't even bother to notice an ant on its back.

_Is it gone, then? Or just bidding its time?_

He waits, holding his breath, but no more sounds or vibrations come. Seconds, then minutes pass. He switches on the comm. "It seems the air is clear… report your status."

"Bellamy OK," he hears a voice shaking with relief; the young Private is apparently on the edge. "No sighting of the bastard…"

"Ryan OK."

"Dyenyisova OK." Her accent is stronger than usually: a sign of nervousness, but there's no need to worry about Deni, she never chickens out.

"Biagi… screwed, sir. My leg got caught under the Mako. I managed to pull it out but… no big for walking. Say hello to Tarasov when you get there, I might take some time."

Looking at the position of his remaining men on the omnitool, Shepard decides: "Bellamy, Ryan, make a team and head north. Cover each other but maintain distance, and rendezvous with Denisova. I'm getting back for Biagi; hopefully, we'll join you later."

"You'll need someone to cover your back," Denisova protests, "and it's about the same distance to you, anyway. Let me come along, you might need a hand with Federico."

_As if one tiny _dyevochka_ could carry an almost two-meter marine_. On the other hand, Bellamy is a sucker, better keep him paired with an old impressive veteran like Ryan. Shepard hesitates. Reason tells him that their former camp is no more dangerous than anywhere else, yet he'd much rather see Deni out of there ASAP.

Only that she is right, of course, and he shouldn't allow emotions get the better of him. "Very well, then. Rendezvous you in the camp. – And mind you all, folks: slow, irregular moves. Don't draw attention."

* * *

The distance he previously covered by running now takes ages. In the dim light of the rising tiny golden moon, he can already recognize the remnants of the former perimeter of the camp, with a turret crushed into pieces as the beast ran over it. He freezes for a moment: the tense nerves send false signals to his instincts – or he at least hopes they are false.

The sudden activation of the comm makes him startle.

_Toshio._

Shepard feels his guts wrench painfully, even before he hears his friend assess in a calm voice: "It's coming. Sensors picking seismic activity approaching fast. Keep your fingers crossed for us."

Slowly, Shepard sinks to his knees. "Leave the frequency open, Toshio. I'm with you."

Toshio does not respond but Shepard hears: curt orders, the howling of overloaded brakes and engines, the snapping of the gunmachine, the dull thuds of rockets, frustrated yells of Farrini by the Mako's guns and Demwa by the driving, alternating with cheering at good hits.

A sudden surge of curses, and Iaeda says, only slightly tensely: "We've just lost Voyantseva's team. Now it's up to us. – Faster, Demwa, sharp turn!"

_No. No. _Shepard almost cannot breathe. _Hold on, Toshio, hold on…_

The engines howl even louder, followed by a yell of frustration, and the cacophony is increased by alerts accompanied by the warning of the synthetic voice. "Warning: the hull is compromised. Danger of explosion. Leave the vehicle immediately. Warning…"

Shepard bites his lip so hard that he feels the taste of blood on his tongue.

There are screams, and a series of explosions. More screams, cursing, howling of alerts, roaring flames; a shrill, panicked voice praying to God until it is cut off abruptly, and the comm goes silent with a sound of one last explosion.

Trembling, Shepard is squeezing his eyes tight shut, as if it could somehow make this not exist.

The hand he raises to his face is blocked by the visor.

_Sayonara. Sayonara._

* * *

With a broad sneer, Banes turns to Wayne again. The doctor looks sour: his fears of the military technology superiority have been proved unbased.

"It was rather close," Stravinski chills Banes. "If the first Mako had a better driver, the two of them would have done it." She purses her lips briefly: bets apparently undermine the dignity of the research.

Romero conceals a smile: he has also placed his bets on the threshers, and to win, all he needs are five more marines to go. _Ah, well, most of the night still ahead…_

His good mood surges even higher as Stravinski instructs: "I believe we should exchange the subjects."

Nodding, he activates the leads to distract Suzie further away, and once in a safe distance, lures in Babs.

* * *

_Warsaw_'s deck drowns in dead silence. It takes Tarasov all the experience of his years in service to look at the faces of those present, pale like his own, but his voice fails him. He sees Staff Commander Huxley blinking fast; Rose Parkington, the young comm officer, is crying openly. Under Tarasov's look, she tries to straighten and wipe her face, but the next moment she starts shaking with irrepressible sobs.

Tarasov takes a shaky breath and addresses Lieutenant Anita DuBois: "Take Parkington to the medbay and call Narayan to take over."

Bearing his eyes into the holographic visualisation of Akuze, his mind flies to the remaining survivors.

_Shepard. Don't let that break you, son._

* * *

The camp has virtually ceased to exist.

The ground is burrowed far and wide, an occasional piece of tent canvas or equipment discernible in the moonlight. One of the Makos, crushed like a children's toy, its front burnt and half-molten.

Shepard closes his eyes for a moment: the scene of Toshio's last stand comes out too vividly before him.

Getting hold of himself once again, he checks his omnitool for Biagi's location and makes for the other Mako he can see, upturned and half-buried in the ground.

"Over here," he hears in the comm even as he senses rather than sees movement in its shadow.

Denisova appears soon after that, as he is examining the radio technician's leg in the torchlight. She takes but a single look. "I'll go get some splint."

The light reflects on Biagi's visor, obscuring his face. "Told you I was screwed," he remarks. "I'm on medigel, so it doesn't hurt much, but…"

"You'll lean on me. We'll have to be very slow, anyway. I'm not leaving you behind, Federico."

"If it comes to running, you'll have to, LT."

"Like hell," Shepard replies, but is well aware that this would depend on circumstances he doesn't want even to think about. _No way I'm losing any more…_

* * *

The night seems to linger for eternity. For some time, they neither hear nor feel any signs of the beast's presence, but just as Shepard starts to ponder radioing Tarasov for the shuttle, Ryan reports sighting, or rather feeling, the _fucking bastard_ again.

The frustratingly slow walk becomes even slower as they have to stop every now and then, feeling the beast prowling by close. The stops, though welcome for the muscles strained by the unnatural pace and rhythm of walk, are a test of nerves: the helplessness and the inaction grating on them all.

"I hate this," Yela remarks under her breath. "Pity Toshio can't give us a lift. Lucky bastard, giving his ass a ride. I bet he is half-way through by now."

Shepard swallows hard, feeling a lump form in his throat.

"Connor?" she says tensely, alarmed by his lack of response.

The words are hard to come by. "He… didn't make it, Deni. They encountered one of those things and nearly got it, but…"

"_Nyet_. _Nyet!_" In shock, she switches into Russian, producing a long stream of incoherent words, until she breaks off, sobbing. Shepard tries to embrace her but in the hardsuit, the effect of the human touch is lost: as if he was holding a statue.

After a moment, Denisova pulls away. "We'll kill it," she says in a voice trembling with fury. "We'll get out of here, return with more people and kill every single one of those beasts, you hear me, Connor?"

"Yes. Yes, we will, Yelochka." _If we make it out of here ourselves_.

She nods furiously but then starts sobbing again. "I – I put itching powder in his smalls in his locker, as a payback for that stinky perfume he swapped for my shower gel…"

The lump in Shepard's throat nearly chokes him, and so it is Biagi who reaches his hand and touches Denisova's shoulder. "That would have been quite a sight, Toshio scratching his balls on the deck, just under the Old Wolf's nose." The technician's voice is also suspiciously hushed, and Yela squeezes his hand tight.

Shepard only keeps clenching his teeth so hard that it hurts; it helps him not to cry.

He's bloody in charge, he can't.

* * *

"I should have slept with him then," Denisova remarks suddenly, during another forced stop as the beast burrows nearby. "When he dyed his hair because of me."

Biagi uncertainly clears his throat but Yela continues, her helmeted head turned into the direction of something neither of the men can see. "No-one ever went to such lengths because of me. I said I only go for blondes, so he dyed his hair…"

"Yela." _He wanted to get into your pants as much as I did, don't make it anything more than it was_. _It was yellow, the ugliest yellow ever, no blonde_… "Yela, you knew him… that was merely a joke…"

Her helmet turns to him. "You know what, Connor? For all your superb IQ, you're sometimes a real _durak_. Of course there was more to it, I just… wasn't interested in a relationship, so I put up that old 'just friends' bullshit. He played along, all that time, but he would have wanted more, and I pretended not to know. And now he's dead. Dead." She lowers her head. "I screwed. Just like with my folks on Elysium. Missed the one chance… and _screwed_. "

Taking an example from Biagi, Shepard decides to remain silent, to avoid another blunder, and nearly wishes that the ground opened under him right then and there.

When the sounds of the burrowing move somewhat away, they slowly continue their way, in silence.

* * *

Checking the readings of the local scanning devices, Romero raises his head from the console. "Positive," he confirms. "Either there is a body with functioning electronics, or we have a survivor over there by the refinery site."

Fronsard looks questioningly at Stravinski; after a moment, she nods. "I believe it's safe to send the field team now to check. Lead Nancy away."

"Aye aye, ma'am." Luring the threshers from and into a location is something Romero could do in his sleep; the trip will be as safe as a walk in the park. The greatest danger poises the marine himself, should he manage to radio to his superiors at an inconvenient time – but Zanna Leitmeyer and her men have plenty of experience at dealing with such situations, and the best of the stealth technology the Cerberus funding can provide.

Activating the lures for Nancy, Romero starts softly humming his favourite melody of 'Singing in the Rain.'.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

_Fifty marines died on Akuze._

Romero stifles a yawn. The long night has considerably depleted his stash of coffee, and with the lack of action of the last few hours, the adrenaline has dropped. Routinely, he sends the signal to keep Babs interested in the area, and checks the readings from the weather satellite: the dots representing the Alliance marines progress so slowly that they practically don't move.

The return of the field workers brings only little excitement, at least for Romero, while Carl Fronsard quickly rises from his seat with a glint in his eye. Leitmeyer shrugs off his questions and walks away, mumbling something about a shower; Banes watches the doctor trotting off to the laboratories with a cynical smile. "And here I thought us doctors were supposed to _help_ people," he remarks to Romero.

Romero does recall that there used to be a time when he thought that, too; he was apparently _very_ young back then. "Well, he does help people, in a way… just not _that_ particular guy."

Banes laughs. "Yeah, I guess Corporal Toombs will not be exactly pleased when he comes to. I just hope he will last longer than those couple of colonists we had, I don't think we'll be able to provide doctor Fronsard any more test subjects for his plays."

_Definitely not after today_, Romero agrees, but swallows the comment as he sees Stravinski enter. For some reason, she tends to act as if what they were doing here was for some important cause and not for money; it is actually even possible that she believes that.

Whatever she believes or nor, the experiment has been running smoothly so far, and the conclusion is not very far.

* * *

"Still active." Anita DuBois's voice reveals frustration. "The bastard keeps prowling around... it must somehow sense the guys. I think I'd almost surely manage to pick them up quickly, but..."

Tarasov bites his moustache, equally frustrated. That worm-thing, whatever it is, actually increased its activity at daylight, instead of the other way round. According to the reports of the shuttle hovering high, it keeps wildly criss-crossing the area, as if searching for something, moving under the ground at an unbelievable velocity and bursting out at totally unpredictable spots. Shepard's survivors have been practically pinned down for most of the time, and having the shuttle descend would be highly risky.

_How long can it go on like that?_

Tarasov runs his hand over his face. It was a long night, due to Akuze's slower rotation even longer. The marines down there must be on the edge. During their last communication, Shepard reported that Biagi's state was worsening, despite the regular application of medigel: the tissues of the crushed leg are apparently too damaged and require a fast surgery, or the Corporal will be for an amputation.

_Provided he lives long enough._

_Something had better happen ASAP._

* * *

"That's no use, Romero," Wayne snorts. "That shuttle won't go down now, and you can't keep Babs like that much longer."

"C'mon, doctor. With switching stations and frequencies, I can keep her dancing for hours."

"You already have." Stravinski is tapping her fingers on her datapad: a sign that she is pondering something. "The pattern of burrowing shows that she is getting irritated. If only we could make that shuttle descend... she would attack in no time. Any ideas, David?"

Whenever she calls him by his first name, Romero feels a slight surge of his hopes for something more in the future, even though he is sure she's doing this on purpose, to provoke him to exploit his talents to the full. This time, though, there is nothing he can do. "Too risky. I have a fairly good estimate from the simulations how far to lure her but the shuttle will undoubtedly wait till they feel it's safe to descend, and in that case Babs might not make it back in time."

Stravinski purses her lips. "Alright. For the time being, we'll leave the experiment run as it is."

* * *

"_Zdakhnyi, khuy. Zdakhnyi_."

Hearing Deni mutter passionate curses, Shepard cannot but agree, whatever it is she wishes to the beast. The last hours have been exhausting both physically and psychically: the worm-thing seemed to prowl closer and closer, the passing of its burrowing more frequent. Twice, it went almost directly under them, so close that he was sure it must feel the pounding of his heart through the hardsuit. In this situation, walk became almost impossible, and so did rest, on the almost constantly shaking ground.

He looks up, at the silver shape of the shuttle in the early morning light, circling around the area. The escape is so frustratingly close...

Even more so that it has become the only way. Even with medigel, Biagi is barely able to move now and Shepard will have to switch with Ryan soon to support, or rather carry him.

"_Tchort vazmi_!"

Deni barely manages to finish the curse when the beast burrows under them again, and bursts out its ugly maw further off ahead, beating the tentacles against the pale azure sky. Then it sinks back into the ground, routing in the direction of Ryan and Bellamy.

_How much longer yet?_ Shepard ponders, when he suddenly hears a hysterical sob on the comm and an indiscernible word, and Ryan yelling desperately: "No, Johnny, don't! Stay put!"

Alarmed, he raises his head, to see a figure sprinting wildly away from the burrowing, and the rise of the soil changing the direction. _No_. "Stay put, everyone! Don't fire, don't move!" _Fool, fool, young fool..._ "Don't move, don't move, nobody move," he repeats to the comm, over Johnny Bellamy's high-pitched screams of sheer terror.

The beast disappears under the ground again and does not move, apparently occupied by whatever it is doing with the Private's corpse.

"Ryan." Shepard has to swallow several times, to get his voice to normal. "What happened?"

"The kid lost his nerve, LT." Ryan's voice is also shaky. "It was coming directly at us... he snapped and started running."

_Fuck. Fuck. Such an unnecessary death..._

_The question is, what will the thing do, now that it has found its victim? Will it move away, once it has digested it – or does it sense that there is more food to be found?_

_And, what should we do meanwhile?_

* * *

Stravinski's decision to continue the experiment has brought its fruit, and the chief researcher studies the thresher attack sequence, captivated as if they haven't seen this before with the colonists _ad nauseam_. "Let Babs rest a little, David, but watch out: don't let our friends walk away from the area, or that pilot might get some ideas. I think we may expect them to try some action soon."

* * *

The ground shakes as the beast suddenly moves.

Shepard freezes in midstep, disappointment washing over him with almost physical impact. Ever so painstakingly slowly, they made use of the beast's inaction, trying to pull out of its radius in various directions, and now all their effort has come to naught.

_Or maybe..._

Seeing the direction of the beast's burrowing, he snaps into the com: "DuBois! Pick up Ryan and Biagi! Now, quickly!"

"On it!"

In no time, he hears the growing roar of the shuttle's engines... and he sees the burrowing approaching fast.

_Can she make it?_

Ryan apparently doesn't think so. "Get out, DuBois, it's coming!"

_Fuck. That much for the idea._

The shuttle makes a sharp turn, gaining height and speeding away, even as the beast's head emerges from the ground, splitting along the three lines into an ugly toothed cavity and ejecting a greenish cloud in the shuttle's direction. For a moment, it sways in the air, turning around, some fifty metres from Ryan and Biagi, who are lying flat in the grass, before it retracts into the ground again and starts its usual pattern of prowling around.

"Sorry, guys," he hears Anita's apology. "What now, Shepard?"

_What now?_

"We have to try something else. Give me a moment, I have to think this through."

* * *

At the base, everyone leans excitedly towards their screens.

"An excellent job, David," Stravinski mutters, "you've calculated it precisely. Her sense of vibrations is so acute... Let us see now what Lieutenant Shepard comes up with. This stage of the experiment is really invaluable."

* * *

Slowly and cautiously, they form a semi-circle on the low terrain waves: Shepard and Ryan on the left flank, Biagi and Denisova on the right one.

"_If we can't get out, then we have to take out the bastard. Let's lure it where we want it…"_

Feeling his mouth going dry, Shepard unrestrainedly refreshes on his recycled water. If his plan fails, he won't need the water any more.

_One shot each, two if we are lucky, before it hides in the ground again. If that's not enough… it will be after one of us._

They each took one of the three remaining grenades, as the last resort, except Denisova, who is to do a nova if she gets snatched.

_Will that suffice_?

Shepard closes his eyes for a moment. _One of us taken… and the other three will get the chance to have a shot. One of us._

_It must suffice. It must. One, no more. No._

Checking their position one last time, he feels the nervousness replaced by the calmness which always settles in before the fight. Things stand out unnaturally clear: the outline of the terrain wave on which Denisova's tiny figure is stationed and the speck of low bushes further off; Biagi, lying on another elevation with his shotgun ready; Ryan to his right; the shuttle high above, glistening in the beams of the sun, still low above the eastern horizon. The burrowing of the beast becomes insignificant: the only thing that matters is where it will out.

He looks at the centre of the semi-circle. "Ready, everyone?"

"Ready." Biagi's voice is somewhat hushed , due to the effect of a high dose of medigel.

"Ready. I'll kiss you all, guys, once we kick its ass."

_I'll hold you to that, Yelochka_.

"No kissing for me, thanks," retorts Anita DuBois, and Ryan only quips in: "Aye aye, sir."

Shepard gets his assault rifle ready. "Fine. Go, Anita. Drop it."

* * *

By the comm, Tarasov clutches his hands so hard that they hurt. In his mind, he can see Anita DuBois' dark face, frozen in concentration, as she descends just above the centre of Shepard's position, to drop a canister – to create vibrations and lure the beast into the crossfire. _If she drops it off the target… or if she descends too low…_

* * *

With her lips slightly parted and her eyes shining, Julianna Stravinski is truly breathtaking.

_It is really a pity that to see her like this, one must arrange a thresher and a couple of marines to perform._

Romero himself is quite fascinated, as well, since the colonists never gave them such a show. He glances at Wayne across the room: the doctor strongly opposed including the marines in the experiment, and now he is virtually glued to the screen, just like everyone else.

As expected, Babs goes for the source of vibrations without hesitation.

* * *

The soil flies around as the beast bursts out, only a metre or two from the dropped canister. As it gets hit, it shakes wildly, half-turning around its axis. Shepard does manage the second round before it disappears entirely, even though he is unsure if he did any damage.

As the beast slides into the ground, the time slows down: _where will it turn?_

With lightning speed, the rise of soil moves towards him, as if in a sort of poetic justice, to bring down the author of the plan.

Only, Shepard isn't there any more, moving along the outline of the circle, the rifle in one hand, the grenade in the other.

He doesn't get far. The ground shakes so vigorously that he is nearly knocked off his feet as the massive body resurfaces mere metres from him. The flying soil and stones bounce off his shield; the tentacle-like limbs spread, and so does the monstrous oral cavity, flashing the lines of translucent teeth and some weird organ, contracting as the beast coils back…

The grenade, followed by Tungsten rounds, explodes as the organ ejects a clog of greenish substance. Shepard, already turning away to somersault, instinctively throws an arm before his face but before he can do anything else, something hits him with the force of a pneumatic hammer and sends him flying.

The last thing he hears is the howling of the overloaded shield and Yelena's voice screaming his name; then there is impact, and nothing more.

* * *

Slowly, Tarasov releases the clutched hands. He is unwell, feeling his heart palpitating. "Are you sure, Lieutenant?"

Anita DuBois' velvety voice creaks like a plate of metal before breaking. "Their energy signatures are gone, sir… After Shepard hit it, that – that thing just began bursting from the ground at several spots, all of it – it's so huge, forty, fifty metres, maybe even sixty or more…. The whole area is completely devastated, just like at Lyuba's camp… The readings show nothing, no movement –" a pause, and an obscenity DuBois would normally never use in communication with her CO. "It still lives – the ground shook and I could see a piece of it protruding. It's still there, under the surface, and alive…"

Heavily, Tarasov drops on a chair that someone – Huxley, most probably – provided. "Pull out, DuBois. There is nothing you can do now. Pull out…"

_Fifty-one. I've lost fifty-one good men, for nothing._

Looking up, he sees the faces of his staff awaiting his orders. Struggling hard with the nausea caused by the racing heart, he says: "The Admiralty. We must inform the Admiralty."

* * *

"Awesome. Simply awesome. Who would have expected something like that?"

Wayne and Fronsard are discussing the final stage of the experiment excitedly, while Stravinski is already copying the recordings into her omnitool and console for future analysis. "Did we lose the test subject?" she asks, not even bothering to look at Romero.

_Anything for you, Julianna_. "I don't think so. She got hit pretty bad, but the probes still get some readings of underground activity, and I even had her on the visuals a moment ago. – See?" he replays the recording of the transmission, showing the scaly body slowly moving in the burrowed ground. "She's just waiting to get back in shape, I guess."

Some time later, his estimate is confirmed: uncharacteristically slowly, Babs leaves the area for her usual territory off to the south. Romero checks the readings once more, and then confirms: "No energy signatures, no-one alive. RIP, Lieutenant Shepard, you have served science well. Your sacrifice will not be forgotten – for the next couple of days."

Banes laughs, and so does most of the crew.

Romero yawns profoundly, and finally leaves to get his well-deserved rest. Plenty of time to do the necessary arrangements before any reinforcements arrive.

* * *

The palpitation stopped when he retreated to his cabin, only to be followed by headache and nausea. Slowly massaging his temples, Tarasov is forced to admit to himself that his active career is probably nearing an end… an end marked by an utter fiasco.

"_An unknown alien life form? On a world approved for colonisation?"_ Admiral Zhao's voice clearly implied 'stop-pulling-me-by-the-leg'.

_Yes, Admiral, an alien life form that no report of Akuze ever mentioned. Funny, I know. Much less funny if you're the one whom such a colossal intel failure got head-deep in shit_.

It was only the footage from Lieutenant DuBois's shuttle which convinced the Admiral that Tarasov was lucid – the footage Tarasov wishes he never watched himself.

_They didn't stand a chance._

He tries to lie down on his bed but it only makes his nausea worse. He paces for some time, until he finally sits in front of the console and finds the photos from the last New Year's Eve party. They're all there, laughing and cheering, drunk and happy, even Tarrega who used to smile so rarely, and so very _young_. Hulky Ramirez, hugging tiny Denisova, Shepard and Iaeda, grinning like idiots and showing a finger to the camera, Chen, watching it all with a slightly condescending expression; Demwa, Wei, Voyantseva, Sheckley, Adams…

Tarasov closes his eyes and puts his head into his hands. The Admiralty is going to send an investigation team, with someone capable, to find out how this mess started, but this won't bring any of them back. Someone, somewhere, made a terrible mistake, and it cost fifty-one lives.

Nonetheless, whoever will be held accountable after the investigation is closed, it will not be him but Tarasov who will have to inform the families.


	5. Chapter 5

_Trapped in an extreme survival situation, you had to overcome physical torments and psychological stresses that would have broken most people._

* * *

Thirst.

Pain.

As Shepard groans and instinctively attempts to curl, there comes another sensation: _can't move._

A wave of panic, as he realizes why.

_I am stuck… in the ground. Buried in the ground._

Not completely buried, though. He can move his right arm, and his head, as well, even though the left cheek, down along the ear and neck, burns like hell. As he moves, the layer of soil on his visor partly slides off and sunlight stings in his eyes… some of the soil gets into his eyes and mouth, making him cough and wink frantically to clean his eyes. Through tears, he stares in disbelief at the big hole on the left side of the visor, half of which has turned intransparent milky green, blotched with darker dots.

_Battle visor which is supposed to be resistant to almost anything._

_Dammit. Dammit._

A more profound attempt at moving brings a response of ache at multiple spots but his body is not entirely immobilized; except for the legs, the cover of the soil seems quite thin. The left arm is captured under his body and hurts the most; with only his right hand, freeing himself is complicated. Every move is accompanied by searing pain in the left arm as he struggles to clear away the soil from his upper body so that he can raise and release the arm. He is sweating profoundly in no time; the trickling sweat burns on the injured cheek.

_Why am I feeling so hot?_

Finally, he manages to pull his legs from the ground. He remains lying for some time, too exhausted to move or even think, until the training kicks in and he gropes for the medkit.

With the painkilling and stimulating effects of the medigel gradually building up, he finds it in him to sit up and check the damage.

_Oh. Holy. Shit._

From what he can see through the layer of soil glued with some greenish sticky substance, for the greater part, the hardsuit simply ceased to exist, eaten thin, with large holes. The left arm and shoulder got the worst hit: the crust of soil sticks to the raw tissues, oozing liquid.

Mere sight makes it hurt more.

When he raises his head, though, the sight is no less depressing. As far as he can see, the ground is ploughed with deep furrows and craters.

Except that, he sees nothing and no-one, though the damaged visor does not exactly help.

"Denisova?" Shepard says to the comm before he realizes that the thing is dead. All the systems; no controls glow or data is projected on the visor. Cursing, he pulls the helmet off.

_Not just the visor_…. The whole left side is a mess of molten metal and plastic. Whatever electronic was there, it is past repairing.

_Great._

He wipes the soil off his face and gingerly touches the left cheek: the grains of soil have stuck there, forming a crust over the injury. He needn't wonder what it looks like, his left arm provides a sufficiently nasty parallel.

There's no time to dwell on his aches, though. Cautiously, Shepard gets to his feet and looks around again, trying to recognize the features of the dramatically changed landscape. The two terrain waves are practically gone but he can't be very far from his original position, and the speck of greenery in the distance helps him establish the direction.

"Denisova!" he yells in a hoarse voice. "Deni!" He is slowly turning around, not to miss any movement. "Ryan! Biagi!"

No movement and no response.

No bodies, nothing.

Unsurprisingly, no trace of the shuttle, either.

Stumbling on the uneven surface, sinking ankle-deep in the loose soil, he makes it to the area where he estimates Ryan must have been but without effect; the ground leaves no clue about the Private's fate. Gasping, Shepard drags on to look for Denisova. "Deni! Deni!" he calls again, with growing despair. He would much like to think that the absence of bodies means that the survivors overlooked him and were picked up but the extent of the burrowed area is daunting, and he feels growing anxiety: any of them could be earthed like he was, and he might not see them from two metres.

Then, as he is scanning the patches of lighter and darker exposed ground, he notices something: a yet darker blotch, and at a closer look, protruding feet. Rather small: _Yelena_.

For a single heartbeat, he feels a surge of hope, quickly extinguished with the realisation that buried like that, she must be dead, and that the dark colour of the soil is blood. Yet, he rushes to her as if it could change a thing, till he finally stumbles and lands on his knees. "Deni," he mutters with dried lips, suddenly afraid to touch her and confirm what he already knows. "Yelochka, _dyevochka_…"

Realizing that he is beginning to rock back and forth, he takes a few deep breaths and starts cleaning off the soil, following up her legs, to uncover the rest of her body…

…which isn't there: only a bloody pulp, held together by the remnants of her hardsuit.

He retches long and hard, supporting himself on his uninjured hand, and then remains in the same position, weak and dizzy.

He doesn't know how long it takes, but he suddenly realizes that he is able to rise, and so he does. Looking at his injured arm, he twists his lips: the stuff looks awful, he will have to clean it, somehow… he just has to move from the desolated area somewhere more hospitable.

One thing to be done before that, though.

Swallowing hard to keep his stomach in check, he leans over Denisova. "So sorry, Yelochka," he mutters, "so sorry…"

Bracing himself, he starts searching her remains for the dogtags.

* * *

An hour and two more doses of medigel later, he has managed to tend to the wounds and clean most of the green remains of the acid from his body and armour, even though the wiry Akuze grass turned out much less convenient for the task than he had hoped, and the stuff less neutralized than it seemed, adding some more damage to the hardsuit on his right hand.

Not that it really matters.

The strengthened part of the hardsuit on his back apparently spared him the worst of the acid splash but it is practically dissolved, energy units and all. The hardsuit is no more use than the helmet: dead layers of plastic and metal and useless pieces of armour plating. The shield generator does not even buzz, and the cooling/heating units are dead; under the rising sun, he is already sweating. The inmost membrane layer still absorbs the sweat but to no use: the recyclation units do not function, either. There is about half a litre of recycled water in the water pocket on the right side; the left one was punctured by the acid and is empty.

Shepard smirks. _Really, easier to list the assets than the losses_.

A half-molten bar of military high-protein ration, one more dose of medigel, two doses of extra stimulants, his Hahne-Kedar pistol in a slightly damaged holster. Everything else he had on him is either dissolved or simply not there.

_Oh, yes, and the dogtags_. The chain is almost dissolved but the platelets themselves are undamaged, so he placed them on the chain with Denisova's. He put it around his neck, even though it chaffs the wound.

He hesitates what to do with the helmet: it is dead weight, but once he removes the damaged visor so that it doesn't block his vision, it can be used as a protection from the sun, and so he puts it on.

Slowly, Shepard stands up. One of the meteostation is no further than five or six kilometres away, but without the omnitool, he has no chance to find it. On the other hand, the highland on the horizon is clearly visible, the prominent silhouette of the broad pass alluringly close… no more than a few hours' ride, no more than a two days' walk, for one physically fit and not lacking in supplies.

Shepard estimates he might take three days, provided that he can make good progress on the first day, on drugs and medication, which he most probably will – only he has no idea what he will be able to manage once he runs out of them, and if he doesn't find water.

Water.

All the journey from the colony to the mine, he does not recall crossing a single stream.

Without water, he won't make it at all, as simple as that.

He sets out slowly at first, trying to find an efficiently fast pace that wouldn't exhaust him too much. He won't know that he can't make it if he doesn't try.

* * *

The first day passes more or less as expected; even towards the evening when the effects of medication wear off and the last remnant of water cannot quench his thirst, he is still feeling reasonably well and confident.

The night, though, turns out to be an ordeal. Not long after the sunset, the temperature drops sharply, and the heap of grass he has collected is insufficient to maintain the body warmth in the damaged hardsuit. Once the cold wakes him, he is unable to fall asleep again; in the idle waking, the pain and thirst become more pressing… together with memories and thoughts of 'what if' and 'if only'.

_Survivor's guilt,_ his rational self tells him, but deep within, as he watches the cold twinkling stars in unknown constellations, the thought has already set hold.

_My fault. My fault. I killed them all._

This time, he does not have the strength not to cry.

* * *

It seems like ages before the first sunbeams touch the horizon, and Shepard wishes for nothing else but to curl and sleep in the quickly warming air. It is a wish that cannot be granted; he has to get up and start moving, to make use of the time before the heat sets in. Stiff and aching as he is, though, the getting up part is the most difficult: every single bruise he didn't even know about the previous day makes itself felt. He knows from experience that such aches will quickly improve once he starts moving, but first he has to get up. He makes it to his knees and has to stop, breathing deep to calm the nauseous stomach.

Mere two days ago, he was comfortably sipping coffee with his toasts and criticising the quality of the army food out of habit; today, he would kill for a crunch of it and for that metallic taste of coffee on his tongue.

He would kill for _anything_ to drink, no matter the taste.

Two days ago, he had a _shower_, the water was flowing – …

The memory makes his thirst more tormenting.

Quickly, Shepard diverts his thoughts from what he cannot have. He will be much slower today, that is for sure, he will need more frequent stops, and longer. Even so, he has to reduce the distance as much as he can, to leave the minimum of walking for the third day.

If he is able to walk on the third day, that is.

Worried, he looks at his left arm. The protective coating of the last medigel dose has dried out; the edges are starting to crack and peel. The burns hurt, with steady, monotonous insistence.

_A kingdom for medigel. And water._

Looking around, he sees only the monotonous grassy plain, with no indication of a stream.

Sighing, Shepard sets out, with the sun behind his back heating the damaged hardsuit.

* * *

The sun blaze is killing him.

The first time he faints, he is unsure what exactly happened: he finds himself lying in the grass, with no memory of stopping to rest. He feels dizzy and confused, and recalling where he is and what he is doing there takes painstakingly long.

Not remembering, not being able to think, scares him like few other things; the fear, though, drives him to scramble to his feet and trudge on, until he staggers and drops to his knees.

_Dehydration._

He didn't expect to deteriorate so fast. He must find water. He must.

There must be water somewhere here around, somewhere close. Surely. He struggles to his feet, looking around. He must keep walking, to get to the water…

…or did he miss it as he went?

He actually starts turning to head back, before he gets hold of himself again.

_Oh, God. What am I doing?_

Panic washes over him in a nauseating wave. _How long yet before I completely lose my mind?_

_Must keep walking, must get out of here._

_Keep walking, Shepard, sun or not._

Only then he realizes that he is almost not sweating any more.

Later, he comes to at the base of a mild terrain wave from which he probably rolled down. He is lying on his back, and the part of his face exposed to the sun feels hot and prickling, as if with a thousand tiny needles. His mouth is so parched that his lips crack bloody when he tries to move them, the movement of his head is followed by searing pain in the wounds on the neck. As he attempts to get up, he falls down again, his vision blackening and the heart throbbing frantically; he manages only on a third attempt.

_Go. Or you're screwed. Must go._

He does, until he realizes that he has been walking blindly, with no idea of the direction, or how long he might have been going like that.

This time, he does not even have the strength to despair.

_Come on, Shepard. Go. One foot before the other. Towards the hills. Go._

* * *

The heat still hangs in the air and only when a gush of breeze pierces the empty visor of the helmet does he realize that the sun beams do not beat at him as much as before. Rising his head, he has to squint his eyes to focus at the wall of dark clouds in the western sky. His exhausted brain does not grasp the meaning at first, but as the wind grows stronger, he finally remembers: _the weather on Akuze seems a bit unpredictable_.

A storm.

The sunlight is rapidly decreasing, as well as the temperature. The cold is refreshing: Shepard takes off the helmet and savours the wind cooling his face.

The air has a distinct, wet quality.

_Water. Rain. Water, water, water._

The clouds have covered more than half the sky; a flash of lightning on the horizon is accompanied by rolling thunder. Another flash follows in no time, closer; the thunder sounds almost immediately.

_Storm._

_Lightnings. Electricity._

_Open plain._

Shepard has little personal experience with weather extremes, but he used to do his homework for the lessons of physics, and some instincts die hard.

He squats, keeping his feet close, and crouches as much as he can, seconds before the skies crack open with a blinding flash above him and the rain starts pouring down.

_Rain. Water._

In a quantity that almost makes it difficult to breathe but Shepard doesn't mind; tilting his head, he gulps the cold streams running down his face, ignoring the pain of the burns lashed by the drops.

_Water._

_Miracle._

Cooling and soothing… and also washing away the remnants of the medigel layer on the wounds.

* * *

Half an hour later, he is drenched to the bone in the non-functional hardsuit and shuddering so badly that his teeth chatter, as he is crouching in the muddy water which does not manage to soak into the soil, the torrents of rain beating down with the same intensity, to the endless flashing lightnings and deafening thunder.

When the storm finally subsides, he attempts to get up and resume walking to produce at least some warmth but the stiffened legs fail him. He screams as he lands clumsily on his side, with the left arm under him as he reflexively reached it to ease the fall. Gasping and cursing, he finally manages to stand up on the wobbly feet, and then sets out, staggering and slipping in the muddied terrain.

An hour after the storm, though, the heat is as strong as ever. Revived by the water, Shepard keeps walking with only short stops till nightfall, when he simply drops to the ground and passes out as soon as his body touches the grass.

What follows is even worse than the first night, which he would hardly think possible. Due to the night chill, he suffers from cramps from the constant shuddering, and his left arm is throbbing with pain. In the endless dark, he is reduced to a moaning, gasping heap, whenever a new fit of cramps seizes him. Through the haze of building fever, his mind retains but a single thought:

_Stop. Please, make it stop._

* * *

When he comes to, the sun is high above the horizon; as he moves, the scabs on his face and neck crack again. The movement is accompanied by a flare of pain behind his eyes, followed by strong nausea. He does not dare to move again for some time, the splitting headache coming in waves.

Finally, with tiny, cautious movements, he manages to sit up. His tongue is a parched, stiff thing; the cracks in his lips have developed into sores. The skin on his left arm feels tight, the crust over the burns oozing putrid liquid from the cracks.

_Screwed. I'm screwed._

For an eternity, Shepard stares at the holster by his hip: _better end it fast and clean than linger_. A part of him, though, is not ready to give up quite yet: the hills are not that far away now. If he manages to get up – _slowly, Shepard, slowly, you don't want to fall again_ – and start walking, little by little, he could still make some progress, he might even get there by nightfall.

_Only you need to get not just there but over. Over the hills. To the colony. To the comm._

If he can make it to the hills, there is the road: easy to walk, easy to follow, how many – ten kilometres, fifteen?

Were he at the hills now, he would surely make it, even weak as he is.

One day. But he will need four days altogether to get to the colony, not three.

The extra day will kill him.

_Why bother walking, then? This is as good a place to die as any._

The gun holster is still there, drawing his thoughts like a magnet.

Only, he doesn't really have it in him, to give up while he can still move, or can't he?

_Too stupid to die comfortably_.

With an angry snort, Shepard looks at the hills again.

_Must get there. Must start walking. Must._


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

_You survived while all those around you fell, and now you alone are left to tell the tale._

The mass relay glows with ethereal light, and a frigate materializes in its circle out of nowhere. Heading to the fourth planet, it doesn't escape the attention of the electronic eyes and ears.

* * *

"Investigation team incoming." Fronsard scratches his chin with his usual gesture. "Who's our guest, Romero?"

_As if it mattered. _"SSV _Ardens_. Captain David Anderson."

Seeing the designation, he pauses, and Banes looks over his shoulder and whistles. "N7? Who would have thought that a couple of marines will draw such attention?"

Stravinski frowns. "N7 or not, I believe our precautions are sufficient. – Speaking of which, Romero, are you sure the network is disconnected?"

"Perfectly sure." It pained him a bit, but it had to be – the genius who constructed the network of lures, cameras and transmitters, conceived its destruction with an ease which required a single command. Even if any of the devices was ever found, their purpose would never be revealed; with the software from the meteostations erased, the connection would never be made; the base itself, shielded from scans, has gone black and could be discovered only if anyone knew where to look, which they don't…

And, were they to be discovered… there are precautions even for that. Classified operations tend to have their advantages.

The base has closed its many eyes and ears, and withdrew to itself, to digest what it has swallowed.

* * *

The lush greenery of the grassy plain, the pink and yellow of the eaten rock in the pass above the road.

_The road_. If it wasn't so easily visible from the distance, he would have lost direction long ago. Even so, walking straight is next to impossible: every now and then, Shepard finds himself straying… when he finds himself walking, that is.

More often than not, he finds himself on the ground, each and every time taking all his strength to get back on his feet again.

That strength which is quickly running out, drained by the heat and thirst and fever and pain.

Barely aware of his surroundings, Shepard mechanically trudges on, while he still can.

The change of vegetation goes unnoticed for some time; the occurrence of low bushes gets across only when he starts stumbling over them. Puzzled, he presses his palm against his forehead: the bushes have some meaning but he can't recall what it might be. When he stumbles again and drops to his knees, he tilts his head back to look up and realizes that the hills are right before him, their slopes rising very, very close. The sunlight tinges them golden; when he squints against the blazing disc, he is surprised to see it already going down.

_Nearly there… but where?_

Close to panic, Shepard scrambles to his feet and looks frantically for the pass, until he notices an excavated slope further to his right.

Only, the vegetation is thicker here: the grass is taller, nearly up to his knees, and those shrubs keep catching at his legs. There seems to be an almost continuous stripe of these, waist-high, just before him; in his state, pushing through there would be more straining than making a detour, and so he turns back to the plain.

The stripe of vegetation goes further and further, infringing on his route. Shepard staggers along it for a while, until an idea finally makes it through to his hazed brain: _why are the bushes here like that?_

The intuitive realization gives him the strength to push through.

There, trickling in a low bed, a tiny stream runs from the hills into the plain, to gradually soak into the sandy soil.

_Water._

The stream is only a few centimetres deep here; the pebbles on the bottom are barely covered. Lying on the shore, Shepard plunges his face into the water. The stinging in the sores and burns feels almost like a blessing.

After a few gulps, he chokes on the sand and starts coughing. – Which is good for him, as he vaguely recalls, since he shouldn't be drinking too much too fast, though he is unsure why. He would much rather drown himself in the water, if there was enough to do it. But instead, he turns on his back and takes the water with his right hand to cool his face and head, letting it trickle from his fingers to his mouth every now and then.

It feels heavenly.

_Wasn't I wearing a helmet?_

Shepard doesn't recall removing it and doesn't see it anywhere around. Most probably, he took it off somewhere to cool himself and didn't remember to put it on again.

_Screw the helmet._

_Water. I have water._

He doesn't go any further but finds a spot to lie on the shore, close to the water, and awaits the inevitable coming of the night.

* * *

The night is a mosaic of confused perceptions. There are moments where he shudders vigorously, followed by the feeling of immense heat. There are whiles of lucidity, when he can see the stars above him acutely bright, the two moons of Akuze shedding light of pale and dark gold, so close in the clear air that he might touch them if he reached his hand. The next moment, his feverish brain conjures images of familiar people and places which seem even more than real, and he is unable to distinguish if they are there or not.

Deni in her red bikini, running along the beach towards the sun, which rises from the ground with a deep, ultrasonic growling, and she keeps running, running, laughing, until the bikini flows down her hips in blood and only her eyes, winking provocatively, remain untouched in the mashed pulp.

_No. No._

Toshio, with his impish smile, raises his head of repulsive chicken yellow from the chessboard: _you're screwed, Shepard. _

_Screwed screwed screwed screwed._

Lyuba smashes the table with her biotics, sending it into the middle of the brawling men, and yells orders with a voice that defies her face of a porcelain doll; the voice which easily carries above the gunfire, and Deni holds up the shimmering blue barrier, her features contorted with the strain, while he is dragging Lyuba to safety and Toshio, calm and concentrated, is fending off another wave of batarian mercs: _It's up to you now, Shepard!_

_No, no, I failed, can't do a thing now, can't… can't…_

Mom looks at him disapprovingly as she is holding a glass jug of water which she is carrying away, out of his reach. _Wait_, he wants to say but no sound passes through his throat, _don't go…I can't go to you any more, I'm so tired, I need… I need… rest…_

_Rest._

* * *

Tarasov paces the deck nervously and is acutely aware that he is pacing, which he normally never does, but cannot help it: he has to do _something_. Anita DuBois by the comm, on the other hand, stands like carved from dark wood, and the sight of her makes his nervousness even more palpable.

Down there, on Akuze, the investigation team is examining the sites, and _he_ can't do a thing.

* * *

_Fifty-one. Fifty MIA, one KIA so far. Massacred by some beasts no-one has seen before._

_Or rather, no _human_ has seen before. As soon as Tarasov's report stirred the mud, it was very quickly revealed that the beasts, these _thresher maws_, _were_ known to the other Citadel races, only no-one ever bothered to give a warning._

_And if they did, it never made it to those responsible for issuing the decree to open Akuze for settlement._

Thinking of all those unnecessary deaths, Anderson feels a surge of anger: _some white-collar rat didn't bother to pass the information on, and all those guys died here._

With his lips pressed, he looks at sealed the plastic bag, hiding the maimed remains which the DNA scan confirmed as those of Corporal Yelena Denisova. The recent rain washed away the soil which previously must have been hiding her body from sight, but it also obscured any other possible clues which might have been there, including her dogtags.

"Nothing, sir. Shall I search a broader perimeter?"

Anderson looks around: the burrowed area is tens of metres in diameter, and though he would much like to recover the dogtags, the search would take hours. There have been no sightings of the threshers so far, but he's not going to take any unnecessary risks. "No, Aleco, you can pack your scanner; just mark the coordinates. We have to take a look at the other sites, and at the colony."

Leaving for the shuttle, he looks around one last time, thinking about the footage from _Warsaw'_s shuttle, showing the beast in action, bursting from the ground furiously. The heavy gun on his back suddenly seems inadequate.

He doubts they would find a thing elsewhere: from what he has read about the threshers, they rarely leave any remains… or survivors.

The shuttle takes off abruptly and heads south.

The empty medigel packages and the removed battle visor, made from plastic and hidden under a layer of mud, never appear on the scanners.

* * *

The warm, sweet-smelling grass under his face. Peace. Quiet. A good place for a shoreleave.

Only, Yela is taking too long with those cold drinks she promised to fetch.

And he is too hot, lying in the sun. He should move elsewhere. He should go. Now. Go.

_Where to?_

His senses are strangely dulled, and he feels confused. Where should he go? He's on a shoreleave. He doesn't have to go anywhere if he doesn't want to, especially if he isn't feeling well. Actually, he can't go anywhere. He's too weak to go. Too… too…

Some urge which he does not fully understand makes him attempt to raise his head. _Oww… the headache…_ It's a terrible hangover, no wonder he is so thirsty. _Where are those drinks, Yela? _

_Yela…Yelochka, _dyevochka_, so sorry…_

The memory of her crushed body stands out vividly, breaking through the haze of the fever. The next moment, he is unsure if that ever happened, but the urge to stand up and go returns renewed. As he raises his head again, the pass is right there, floating before his eyes.

With effort, he manages to sit up: his movements are uncoordinated and the ground is unstable, as if in an earthquake. That makes his headache worse, and with a soundless moan, he raises his hands to his temples. The left arm, from the fingertips to the shoulder, responds with pain. It is a sore sight; a mess of red swollen flesh, cracked scabs and yellow puss.

_I must get to the comm, or I am screwed._

_Screwed. You were right, Toshio, I'm screwed._

_Not quite yet, though. Don't play galactic chess with Shepard, Shepard always pulls a trick out of his sleeve, always knows where his pieces are and how to use them best._

_Where my pieces are…_

Clumsily, he gropes for the dogtags, barely noticing when the chain tears the scab. Clutching the platelets in his palm, he looks at the pass. So close… and then along the road, good, solid even road…

He crawls to the water, drinks and washes his face. After that, he rests on the shore for a while, mildly surprised how exhausting the movement was. Taking one last drink, he gets up: it's not as difficult as he feared but feels as if he were drunk, and a new wave of headache nearly knocks him down. Staggering, he catches at the bushes to secure himself; then, very, very slowly, like in a dream, he starts walking.

* * *

The hard, even surface of the road keeps falling and raising under his feet. His legs feel stiff and bending the knees is accompanied by pangs of pain, his head is at the point of bursting; it's nearly impossible to walk like that. He tries to stay in the middle of the road but every now and then, he stumbles at its edge, nearly falling over into the ditch.

Only, he has to go. Has to walk. Keep walking. Very important.

_Go, Shepard. Have to go. Have to get to the comm, to call. To call…the ship. _

_The ship. Warsaw. Toshio's there. Yelena. Have to call them. From there. _

_There. That nice place. On Terra Nova. We're going for dinner. Mom's coming along. Must behave. No pranks, Tosh. You always look good, Deni. Don't worry. I only have to… have to… have to call…_

Losing balance, he stumbles again and slides into the ditch, yelping as his body hits the ground. _Where's the road?_

In panic fear, he crawls blindly until, by chance, he realizes that the surface under his body is hard and even again. The mild slope curves in the last bend, the colony units stand out in the sunlight. Hypnotized by the sight, Shepard somehow stands up and moves forward.

_There. There. Wait for me, I just have to do this. Finish this. I'm almost there…_

* * *

Carrying out the job a dead man has done before them is uncompelling, and the futility does not sit well with Anderson. Searching the housing units of the _Selenya_ colony brings no more clues than it did when Shepard's men did the task; there was no oversight, no fault. The data copied from the colony's servers will take days to assess, which can be done on the _Ardens_, but Anderson feels in his gut that they won't yield a thing.

_No signs of thresher activity behind the hills, only in the plains, yet all the colonists were gone without a trace... and the marines had no idea what they were going into._

_All in all, a huge pile of steaming shit._

Only, it's rather annoying to smell the stink but not be able to tell where it comes from.

_Did I miss the part how thresher could organize? Or is this another piece of information our Citadel friends didn't bother to drop our way?_

Frustrated, Anderson kicks at a stone. Being clueless is as bad as being helpless.

Akuze's sun still hangs above the western horizon, drawing long the shadows of men and buildings. They have gathered every single log, every single personal PDA, for analysis, gathered DNA samples to exclude the possibility of a covert enemy intrusion, done every single thing Anderson can think of – merely for the sake of dutifulness, since he _knows_ they won't find a thing.

The intuition which tells him there is more than meets the eye remains annoyingly silent instead of telling him where he should look, or what for.

The annoyance is distracting, constantly drawing his mind to the more or less possible scenarios of what could have happened, and so he notices an entirely new factor only when Lieutenant Roscoe gasps: "Captain..."

Swirling around to the direction the Lieutenant points, he is momentarily speechless himself, noting a figure slowly staggering among the housing units as if the man didn't see where he was going – which he probably doesn't, Anderson realizes, as soon as he takes in the details.

A badly damaged hardsuit, barely recognizable as the military issue. Festering wounds on the arm and cheek, deep sunk eyes in taut, sunburnt face, lips blackened with dried blood... more dead than alive.

"Oh, God," Roscoe mutters, and Anderson can only echo the thought. _Oh my God... one of Tarasov's marines. After four days..._

They both rush forward.

It seems the man doesn't realize their presence, too intent on maintaining the slow groggy walk. He doesn't respond when addressed, and so Anderson tries again: "It's alright, soldier. You've done it, you're safe."

The man stops at that, recognition finally reaching those glazed eyes. For a moment, he sways, looking at them, and then, as if something snapped, falls over.

Anderson and Roscoe reach out their hands to prevent him from falling, alerting the team medic even as they are gently lowering the survivor on the ground.

"Unbelievable," Roscoe whispers, as if he didn't want to wake the man. "I'd never have thought, after what we saw... Who is he?"

Hypnotized, Anderson watches the _too many _dogtags on the chain around the man's neck: he knows he has found those of Yelena Denisova even before actually touching them. Awoken by Roscoe's question, he checks the platelets: "Lieutenant Connor Shepard."

* * *

One by one, the recordings of the hidden cameras are scrutinised and analysed; notable sequences are marked for further processing. It's a demanding task, examining one and the same sequence from various angles, and the infra-red ones are a pain in the ass. It is up to Romero, of course, to transfer these into a normal spectre – a tedious, routine job, which he hates, and the result never looks really good.

Romero gets up from the console for a moment to stretch his back. Glimpsing over Wayne's shoulder a footage of a marine who got a full hit of the thresher's acid, he nods in acknowledgement. "Awesome."

"Nothing really spectacular." Stravinski's voice is no more emotional than usually. "We have seen this before in sufficient numbers. Here," she plays a sequence of the thresher crushing the military vehicle under its body, "is a sample of behaviour we haven't recorded previously." She plays the sequence again, more slowly. "See? She recoils to multiply the effect of her mass."

Romero is about to return to his chair when the console designed for following transmissions lights up: _the investigation team wants to chat, huh?_

Listening to the transmission, though, he feels his jaw drop, as does everybody else's.

"He _lives_? That Shepard? How's that possible?" Banes expresses the general shock.

Romero stares at the screen, blinking in disbelief.

"You claimed there were no survivors!" Wayne's voice sounds whiny, as if he already felt the hand of justice grabbing him by the collar.

_Don't shit yourself, doctor_. Romero has little doubt that should it ever come to that, the doctor would gladly testify against them all to cover his arse. _I hope Julianna has _this_ covered, as well._

"No reason to fuss." For once, Romero is glad for Stravinski's cold reasoning. "All the electronics he had on him was damaged, so our scans didn't pick him, as simple as that. It's a pity, because we could have detained him for future use if we had known, but as it is, no real damage happened. He survived, but doesn't know a thing.

"Doesn't know, doesn't tell," Carl Fronsard quips in with a smirk. "Either way, let us wave bye-bye to Lieutenant Shepard's military career. Being the only one to survive when his entire unit went down… uh-oh."

Romero is not so sure of that; with the Alliance military, dishonourable discharge is equally possible as a medal of honour, but it doesn't really matter. Once the fuss over Akuze is over, they will finish the evaluation of their research and remove the last tracks that they have ever been here. One Shepard does not make a difference, just like Toombs, whose body will never be found once his usefulness expires. He smiles and raises his can of non-alcoholic beer in a toast to Fronsard. "As you say. Lieutenant Shepard is no-one of importance."

* * *

Awaiting the arrival of the shuttle, Tarasov stares through the shatterproof pane into the cargo bay, with the greater part of the off-duty crew shuffling right behind him: the news of the investigation team's finding spread all over the ship like wildfire.

In expectant silence, they watch the shuttle enter the cargo bay, and as soon as the air pressure is renewed, they quietly line up along the entrance; Anita DuBois separately and ahead of them all.

Tarasov can see emotions, but no cheers sound as Doctor Alim gets out of the shuttle, followed by two more members of the medical staff, carrying out the litter.

Shepard is a sore sight: from what Tarasov can see under the oxygen mask, he wouldn't have recognized him. Unwittingly, he glances at DuBois whose face has frozen in an expression of pain: though no-one else does, her consciousness apparently holds her responsible for Shepard's four-day ordeal.

_Consciousness, the harshest judge of all._

The crew step back, to let the Doctor and his patient pass to the medbay, and then disperse at Tarasov's order. Only then he turns to the last passenger of the shuttle, who has bid his time to exit. "Captain."

"Why so formal?" Anderson hasn't changed much, except for the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes. "Tarasov. Glad to see you face to face, though I would have preferred happier circumstances."

"You have brought at least one of them home," Tarasov says softly. "That's one more than I had believed. Good enough for me." Looking in the direction of the medbay, he lowers his voice even more: "If he pulls through."

"He will." Anderson speaks also softly, but with conviction. "He didn't make it all the way back to die on you now. A remarkable feat, really." He puts his hand in his pocket. "Gotta something else for you. We found Denisova' dogtags – he had them on him. Like this." A quick alongside glance. "His girlfriend?"

Tarasov slowly reaches for the platelets on a single chain, with the image of Denisova's sparkling eyes and provocatively swaying hips before his eyes. "Only a close friend. They were… a tightly knit bunch, the lot of them."

"I see. It must have been really tough for him – and gonna be."

Tarasov sighs. _Not just for him, Anderson, not just for him._

Though the relief of having better news for Hannah Shepard than he supposed is not a small one.

* * *

Back in his small cabin on the _Ardens_, Anderson tosses his jacket on the chair and slumps on the bed, boots and all.

_Sure, Admiral, but of course, Admiral, as you command, Admiral._

_I can't seriously believe this happened._

"_Captain. You have confirmed Captain Tarasov's report and verified the existence of those… threshers… on Akuze. There is no more you can do now. The decree which opened Akuze for settlement has been revoked, and there will be taken precautions to prevent such tragedies in the future"_

"_Sir. I've checked all the reports of the initial exploration of Akuze, there is not a single mention of the threshers. As a result, over a hundred people died. Someone has to bear responsibility for this."_

_Zhao's holo briefly looks aside. "That investigation will run through different channels, Captain. Your mission is finished."_

"_That's not what you told me when you sent me here, Sir."_

"_That's what I'm telling you now, Captain."_

"_Excuse me, but – "_

"_That's an order, Captain."_

"_Sir."_

_Is it just me, or are you trying to cover up for something, sir?_

_And, do you honestly believe that it will not out, sooner or later?_

Anderson returns in his thoughts to the young Lieutenant, barely breathing, yet holding onto life with that immense will which has brought him through that all.

If no-one else, _he_ will demand answers… and Anderson feels that eventually, he might even get them. Not now, not even tomorrow, but one day.

One day, someone _will_ be held accountable.

_The end_

* * *

**Credits**:

To **Reyavie**, for betaing and support. When your beta starts hating on you villain after the first two paragraphs, you know you're doing it right.

To **Thanwen**, for plunging once again into a franchise she never played and providing invaluable medical advice - _no, Shepard, she wasn't giving me ideas, she was holding me back - alright, alright, the cold cramps... well, look at it this way. _She_ mentioned the cramps and I picked it up. _I_ enquired if you could realistically walk with cracked ribs, and she said you wouldn't. Perhaps you would like to trade - the cramps for - No? I somehow knew you wouldn't. Now be a good character and stop talking back._

_To **The DreadWolf** and **Wyl**, for patiently explaining things military to someone whose sole military experience is playing ME. Every blunder in this area goes to me being too dumb to ask._

_To the **guys from the ME wiki**, who pointed out lore errors._

_To **everyone** who has read, reviewed, faved and alerted._

_And finally, to **Corporal Toombs**, for considerably improving the genetic pool of humanity by ridding it of several repulsive specimen._


End file.
